M Sellars - The End Of Desire

“Hold on, honey,” I said into the phone as I fished out my wallet.

I did a quick mental calculation of the tip and stuffed some bills into his hand with a quick “keep the change,” then stepped out of the vehicle and started across the lot to my own car. The trip had put a dent in my traveling cash, but I wasn’t hurting yet. Still, I figured plastic was probably going to be my best choice to pay for my meals from this point on.

“Okay, I’m back,” I said after returning the phone to my ear.

“Have you been eating?” she asked, still bent on taking care of me by long distance.

I didn’t think she needed the worry, but it seemed to be giving her something to focus on. So, if it made her feel better, I wasn’t going to argue.

“Aspirin and coffee.”

“Rowan…”

“I’ll get something later. I promise.”

“Something healthy.”

“You got it. Something healthy.”

“So what are your plans today?” she pressed.

I glanced at my watch and saw that it was 10:20.

“I’m going down to the main branch of the library to check their archives. If I’m lucky I’ll be able to pick up a lead on Miranda from some of the genealogy records. I don’t know if it will do any good, even if I find something, but maybe.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be meeting up with Doctor Rieth to have a look at the cemetery?” she asked.

“That isn’t until tomorrow. She’s still in Baton Rouge right now. But, I have a map so I might go out there myself this afternoon.”

I stopped at my rental car then pulled the key out of my pocket and unlocked the door. I opened it but didn’t get in right away. I just stood there watching the traffic out on Airline Highway.

“Please don’t,” Felicity appealed.

“Why?”

“Just… I don’t know. Just don’t go alone. Please wait until tomorrow when Doctor Rieth is with you.”

“Okay,” I answered softly. “I can do that. Don’t worry.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, honey. I promise,” I said, unconsciously nodding as I spoke. “Truth is I should probably go back to the motel and grab some sleep once I’m done at the library.”

“Aye, I think you should.”

Silence fell between us. I turned to slip into the car, and my eyes caught the sight of a maid’s cart outside the door of room 7. Some of the furniture was already resting in a pile near the entrance to the open stairwell on the left.

“I’m loving you right now,” my wife finally said.

“I’m loving you too,” I replied.

“Well…” she began hesitantly. “I suppose I should let you go.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I still need to figure out how to get to the library from here.”

“Call me later? When you wake up from your nap…”

“Absolutely.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

I waited to fold the cell phone in half until I heard the click at her end. I hated to end the call just as much as she, but I really did need to figure out where I was going, and get there.

It took a moment for me to realize I was still staring in the direction of room 7 as the maid and a man who could have been a maintenance worker went in and out the door at random intervals. I absently wondered how soon they might have the room ready for rental and even considered going over to the office to ask. Of course, the lady behind the desk probably wouldn’t be particularly interested in renting it to me after what had happened a few hours ago.

Besides, I also remembered what Detective Fairbanks had said. While I’m sure he was well aware I had no intention of leaving New Orleans just yet, I suspected another run-in with the local constabulary wouldn’t go nearly as well as the first. I knew I was going to need to fly beneath their radar for the rest of my visit. Occupying a room at a motel run by the person who had turned me in didn’t strike me as falling into that category.

But, even if that hadn’t been the case, staying here would probably be a very bad idea. Even though my current digs were far less than desirable, I had to take another important point into consideration. They could replace everything in that room except the ghosts. They were there to stay, and I wasn’t all that keen on spending any more time with them than I already had.

I shook my head and started to get into the car. As I slid into the seat and closed the door, I noticed a figure standing in the doorway of the office. It was the owner, sans housecoat this time, although I’m betting she was probably still well armed. She stood sipping from a cup and watching me through the window with a determined stare.

I decided to check my map when I was a little farther down the road.

It had been heavily overcast when the police turned me out, but any precipitation was sporadic. Now, however, it was falling steadily. Not pounding, by any means, just a steady rain. At least it waited until I was indoors.

I had just finished yet another perusal of the microfilm drawers in the archives division of the New Orleans Public Library. Now, I found myself gazing out the window at the small third floor courtyard, watching the water spatter against the windows. Even up here, the sharp smells of mold and mildewed carpet were prominent as they jetted out through the ventilation system.

The condition of the library itself was enough to make a person heartsick. The flood that had come in the wake of Katrina had inflicted more than its share of damage on the building and its contents. The signs were everywhere, including the water level marks on the walls.

But, it wasn’t merely the physical toll that evoked painful emotions. This repository of the written word was now only a part-time library. The rest of the time, it was a temporary federal office housing the FEMA response teams.

Armed officers waited at the entrance, bringing you in single file through metal detectors as if you were entering an airport concourse. The main floor now housed very few books. Instead, harried people with government ID’s occupied the better part of it, each of them systematically interviewing survivors of the disaster, cataloging their losses and shuffling paperwork-but providing little or no relief. The overwhelming sense of despair I could feel from the people I had seen waiting, government forms clutched in their hands, was almost more than I could bear at the moment. Had I not been focused on my own task, I firmly believe I would have sat down in the middle of the floor and wept for them.

Even with an entire floor of the building between them and me, I could still feel it.

I shook off the anxiety then gathered my steno pad and two square boxes containing rolls of microfilm from the top of the metal cabinets. Making my way around the end of the stacks, I headed back toward the center of the dogleg in the L-shaped room. Earlier it had been almost dead up here, but now there was plenty of quiet activity. I wandered up the rows of microfilm readers, checking all the way to the back of the farthest stand, but found them all occupied. Letting out a sigh, I trudged over to a table and pulled out a chair. I hoped my wait wouldn’t be overly long.

“Excuse me…Sir?” a young woman’s voice broke through the calm room. She wasn’t being loud by any means, but given the relative quiet, her words were hard to miss.

I looked in the direction of the voice and saw a very young-looking blonde motioning to me with one hand as she used her other to rewind a roll of film.

“Yeah?” I grunted.

“I’m done here if you need the machine,” she offered.

As I had noticed with Detective Fairbanks, her voice held none of the clipped affectations I had become used to hearing since I had arrived in the city. It made her seem almost as out of place as I felt. But, given the fact that she was young, as well as casually dressed in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, I figured she was probably a college student from out of state.